


The Desk Set

by managerie



Series: RINCH [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-18 03:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/556498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/managerie/pseuds/managerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smut.<br/>With no nutritional value what so ever.<br/>My attempt at a short PWP to 'cleanse the pallet' of my muse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Desk Set

**Author's Note:**

> Betas: [**i_m_just_jay513**](http://i-m-just-jay513.livejournal.com/) and **[**mamahub**](http://mamahub.livejournal.com/)**

  

~ * ~

Harold knew he was in trouble by the sound of John’s tread. The former agent usually never made a sound. The heavy thuds of the size fourteens on the library stairs were ominous in their scarcity.

Finch refused to show his inner turmoil. He kept searching his database for the location of their current number. Reese had assured Finch that the woman would be safe from harm with Fusco escorting her out of town but Finch had his doubts; doubts that the recluse had argued vehemently for just fifteen minutes prior.

Presumably the rancor with which Harold argued his case was the cause of John’s overly dramatic entrance.

When Reese finally burst through the doorway, his jaw was clenched and his breathing was labored. Not with exertion but with anger. John was literally seething. "Up."

Finch turned his entire torso to stare at Reese. "What?"

John stormed over to the billionaire and tugged at the smaller man’s elbow. "I said, up. Get up!"

Harold had no choice but to stand. Reese pushed and pulled his employer until Harold was at the end of the table of monitors. With a clatter, John pushed the keyboard and mouse as far to the back of the desk as they would go and reached for Finch’s belt.

"Mr. Reese." Harold exclaimed.

"Quiet, Finch." Reese continued to unfasten Harold’s trousers, pulling them low.

"Mr. Reese we work here. This is hardly appropriate behavior."

"I said quiet Harold. Talk again and I’ll be forced to gag you."

Oh John was royally pissed. Rarely in their relationship had Reese threatened to restrain Finch. The order for silence usually meant a dilemma for Finch. As Reese pulled off Harold’s pants and boxers, the former agent kneeled to remove Finch’s shoes. John was manhandling Harold like a rag doll.

Finally naked from the waist down besides his socks, Harold’s face began to heat up.

The embarrassment hit full force when John ordered Bear out of the room; ridiculous shame at being ravished in front of a dog.

Reese removed Harold’s coat and folded it into a lump which he placed in the middle of the desk. Now Finch was left just in waistcoat, shirt and tie, undershirt and the socks. John hauled Harold up on to the desk like one would a child.

Finch’s bare bottom was now planted on the cold table. Strong and determined arms lowered Finch to lie back on the bundled coat with his legs hanging. Humiliation and excitement fought for dominance inside Finch as Reese kneeled again, lifting the billionaire’s legs and bringing Harold’s feet to rest on broad shoulders.

Afraid to speak, Finch could only cry out inarticulately as a warm, slick tongue insinuated itself between his buttocks. With practiced ease, John parted Finch and delved inside. After every thrust of the ardent muscle, Reese would widen his grip on Harold to further expose the dusky aperture. Finch’s body ran hot and cold as his entrance was devoured.

Soon a lengthy index replaced the tongue, followed by two more fingers in quick succession. Spit was not an appropriate lubricant but it seemed Reese wasn’t inclined to find the lube. When Finch was loosened to John’s satisfaction, the former CIA agent stood to loom over his pliant prey. "Hold your legs."

Familiar with this request, Harold complied. John helped raise the bad leg so that Finch could cup the back of each knee, bringing his thighs as close to his chest as his injuries would allow. Again, shame, excitement, embarrassment and a thrill raced through the smaller man’s body. Harold imagined what he must look like: half naked, bottom barely on the table, flat on his back with his ankles in the air. Surely he made a foolish and vulgar sight.

But with the heat he saw in John’s eyes, all ideas of humiliation and indignity were abandoned by Finch. Reese looked manic. His eyes were alight, his short hair erratically spiked in uneven waves. Even without the beard and homeless garb, John looked like a wild fiend, ready to rend flesh to get what he wanted. What he wanted at this moment was apparently Harold.

In a lightning fast move, Reese unzipped and entered Finch half way.

"God!" Finch tried to retreat from the onslaught, only to be hauled back to the edge of the desk by powerful hands on his hips.

It burned.

Every bump, wrinkle and ridge of John’s erection could be felt with an intensity that was only eclipsed by the determination Finch saw in Reese’s face. Inch by inch, the taller man advanced inside Harold’s passage. The sudden entry as well as inadequate lubrication caused every nerve inside Finch to crackle and sparkle with a heady mixture of pleasure and pain. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. A flight or fight response had been forcefully converted into a raging need to fuck or be fucked.

Above him, John was grunting and grinding his teeth. With eyes glued to Harold’s face, Reese progressed deeper until the thick, wiry hairs of John’s groin tickled the older man’s ass.

Once fully seated, Reese leaned forward and slapped Harold’s right thigh. "Wider."

With a whimper at the idea of John going impossibly deeper, Finch widened the spread of his thighs. Again the mental image of what someone would see if they entered this room flashed across Harold’s mind. The back of a fully dressed Reese bracketed by pale, hairy, be-socked legs. John hadn’t even removed his own coat. His trousers were still buttoned. He had simply released the closure and pulled his engorged cock through the opening in his boxers. And now he began to thrust.

No gentle testing of the waters: this was a full assault. Hips snapped back and forth with such force that Finch’s feet reared up in a comical fashion, bobbing in the air to John’s rhythm.

Every energetic smack of Reese’s hips against the ample cushion of Harold’s ass resulted in a low, steely grunt from John and a gasp from Finch. The grip on Harold’s hips would surely bruise by morning. Most likely in the unmistakable imprint of Mr. Reese’s long and capable hands.

When John was in this mood Harold wasn’t allowed to touch. Finch was to just lie there, hands behind his knees, legs spread wide, open and willing: for John.

Finch was unable to move his head and thus was forced to either close his eyes or stare at the ceiling. Each action was swiftly met with a slap to Harold’s butt and a command to look at Reese.

Many might feel that Reese was abusing Finch: ordering him about, refusing to allow the recluse to reciprocate. But Harold understood these moods. John was scared. Their argument earlier had fertilized the seeds of doubt Reese still harbored about their romantic entanglement. John was doubtful and afraid. Afraid that Harold was retreating back into his prickly shell, shutting John out. Not trusting Reese as an agent and asset or as a partner and lover. Reese was desperate to reassure himself that Finch still belonged to him. And that he still belonged to Harold.

The tempo of this reaffirmation began to quicken. The obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoed throughout the empty library.

The continued stimulation of Harold’s prostate was building a burning urge to come. The need to stroke his own neglected arousal was quickly banished with a look at Reese’s sweaty, fierce face.

Sensation and pleasure rippled throughout Finch’s being, great, all encompassing, but just not enough.

"Please." Harold dared to beg.

A deft and sure left hand, calloused and strong encircled the neglected organ, stroking fast and brutally. It seemed that Reese was ready to comply. Harold held no illusions that his entreaty spurred any action on John’s part. Reese was simply ready to watch Finch come.

Waves of euphoria and bliss joined in the attack to Harold’s body. The desire to arch his back was ruthlessly ignored by Finch’s mind. Over and over again, John’s cock pummeled Harold’s prostate with the unerring accuracy of a world class marksman.

Finally! Finally, Finch approached his orgasm. The edges were bright and white hot with the promise of release and succor. John moved his right hand to Finch’s shoulder in order to snap Harold’s entire body onto Reese’s shaft.

His legs still bobbing in time to John’s passion, Harold’s tolerance was reached. Radiating out from his well used hole to engulf his entire frame, Finch’s climax was spectacular and embarrassingly loud.

As awareness returned, Harold gladly looked upon the visage of his frantic lover. John’s face was set, his eyes half lidded as he pumped furiously into the welcoming body below him. Still, Reese’s gaze lay upon Harold’s expression. Desire, passion, loyalty and yearning were etched along the beautiful lines of John’s features.

One might wonder why a man of Finch’s temperament, power and disposition would allow his employee and lover to so thoroughly dominate and subjugate him. One had but to look at the fraught, needful desire plainly displayed by the deadly, skilled and athletic Adonis. Desire not for a beautiful goddess but for a geeky, scarred and awkward tech exec long thought dead and un-mourned. That was why Harold allowed this.

John loved him. Loved him and wanted him so much in fact that all reason and civilized comportment was thrown away in the face of a perceived retreat on Finch’s part.

The suspicion that Harold might leave John had the man in near tears of frustration and longing. To be the cause of such despair and attachment in one so accustomed to austerity and isolation was more potent to Finch than tumbling vast empires or ruining Mafiosos.

Finch held the power here. Yet, Harold would never manipulate this pure thing. For Reese to allow himself to open up and love again, especially this powerfully, was incredible and amazing to behold.

John’s rhythm began to stutter, his breath came in gasps and spurts. Reese’s jaw gaped open in a wordless cry. His head pulled back, exposing the bulging tendons of his neck. Each completion of a thrust wrenched a growl from John’s throat.

The hard thwack of hip bones connecting with abused thighs and ass merged into one another.

At last the offensive reached its destination. Howling as if in pain, The-Man-in-the-Suit emptied his essence into Mr. Finch. Hot ejaculate scorched the abraded walls, coating them with the sticky evidence of their devotion.

Reese collapsed, catching himself on weary, shaking arms to keep his weight off his devotee.

Harold released his white knuckled grip on his legs to run shaking fingers through the sweat soaked salt and pepper locks. "Feeling better?"

Heaving a deep breath, Reese smiled and nodded.

"Good." Finch patted John’s shoulder. "This vest will need dry cleaning."

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
